


Countdown to Christmas with Albus and Gellert

by PuzzlesolverDramaqueen



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Grindeldore, M/M, and some fluff, countdown to christmas, there's some angst in here
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-12
Packaged: 2019-09-06 07:12:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16827715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PuzzlesolverDramaqueen/pseuds/PuzzlesolverDramaqueen
Summary: Just a grindeldore-y countdown to christmas.





	1. December 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is my countdown to Christmas, meaning I will try and upload a chapter each day about how Albus and Gellert spent Christmas/Christmas time. There will be lots of fluff, but also some angst, so I'll try and mix it a bit! (Yeah I already failed, bc I am starting this on the 3rd, but I'll try!)

It was the coldest winter in quite a while. Snow was piling on the grounds of Hogwarts, the lake was covered with a thick layer of ice and Hogwarts’ corridors were so chilly that students and teachers alike just hurried through them, desperate to get into the classrooms or offices or common rooms - just any room that possessed a fireplace.

Nonetheless, the castle was decorated beautifully. 12 Christmas trees stood in the great hall, lanterns with colorful fairies were spread around the castle, just like mistletoes (much to the despair and delight, depending on which student you asked), icicles that didn’t melt and pine garlands twirling around the handrails.

Albus had been informed in the middle of December that it was even worse in Austria and that therefore none of the 3 wardens of Nurmengard were staying there. They had strengthened the charms on the castle and were sending a house elf to bring food in once a day, so he needn’t worry, but since he was still responsible for Gellert’s sentence, they had to report to him as well as to the ministry.

He needn’t worry, except that he did. Christmas was always hard on him, despite the joy of the students. Of course, he was invited to many high-ranking Christmas parties, but never felt like visiting even one of them. They were not family. The closest thing he had to a family were his students and depending on how many of them stayed in Hogwarts over Christmas (not many, most of the time), the big castle felt quite lonely to him. It was also around this time of the year that his thoughts, usually carefully locked away in the darkest corner of his mind, strayed to Gellert. It was ten years since they had last seen each other, ten years since he had won the most powerful of all wands from him. He should have been free and happy. He was the hero of the wizarding world and he was in the possession of a hallow. But he didn’t feel like a hero and most definitely he wasn’t free. He was a prisoner for as long as Gellert was.

Now, this Christmas, the thought of Gellert, freezing in his cell with barely enough to eat, followed him in his dreams. It followed him to dinner and to class, it followed him like a shadow everywhere he went. It was like 1945 all over again. Only half a year after their duel, he was still desperately picking up the pieces of his heart and soul, trying to put it back together - somehow, just so that he could live without the constant painful throbbing in his chest. 1945 he had spent Christmas Eve in front of the Mirror of Erised, had spent the whole night there actually. He’d sat on the ground and stared into Gellert’s eyes as if he was hypnotized until tears had started to spill out of his eyes and sobs escaped his throat and he didn’t know where to go or what to do, although everything in him felt like trashing the mirror and then his office and maybe the whole castle and then himself. He hadn’t done it. He’d sat there through the night and returned to his bed in the early morning and spent the whole day in bed, unable to get up, unable to fall asleep properly, always in a limbo between sleep and wake, where the ghosts of his family and the victims of war haunted him and Gellert. Gellert, Gellert, Gellert. Always Gellert. And questions, so many questions. So many What If’s.

He’d contemplated returning to the mirror now. But he felt like it wouldn’t do. He needed to see Gellert. See what he looked like, if he got sick, if he was too cold, if the house elves really brought him food. If he was still angry, sad, if he’d talk to him at all. If he regretted, if he remembered, if he thought of him. It was pathetic, really. He was pathetic, but he caved anyway.

After a painful breakfast in the Great Hall with only 3 students and half the staff members, he cast a warming spell on his new crimson winter cloak, visited the kitchen to take some food and took a not authorized portkey to Austria. He could’ve taken the portkey waiting for him in the ministry, but the last thing he wanted was for Aurors to accompany him or an article in the Prophet wondering what Albus Dumbledore was doing in Nurmengard on Christmas day.

The protective enchantments Gellert and then himself and the ministries had put on Nurmengard castle spanned the whole hill it was built on, so that he had to take the last miles by foot. The cloak did keep him warm, but his ears and hands still went numb after a while and he was quite out of breath after climbing through the masses of snow.

The castle opened its doors for him, as soon as the spells recognized his magic. The atrium, once beautiful was covered in dust and snow and not a bit warmer than outside. He passed through the magical blockade and took the stairs up to the highest tower. The whole castle was dark, most of the magical candles had burned out and the wind was howling through the cracks in the rotting walls.

There was another magical blockade at the top of the stairs and a door guided by dirty stone knights, before he could enter the short corridor at the top of the tower - they had been _very_ thorough this time.

The corridor that lead to Gellert’s cell was more of a room. A small sparse room with only a wooden chair, a few newspapers - obviously left by the guards, a knife and some rotting food leftovers. As soon as the door closed behind him, he stood still. Contemplating whether he should step into the room or turn right back and run. The bars that separated Gellert’s cell from the warden’s room were only a few feet and his heart started racing. His mind went completely blank, he could only feel pulls and pushes on his heart, telling him to stay and to go at the same time. Finally, he took a deep breath, bracing himself, and held it, while he slowly crossed the room.

The cell was dark, only a dim ray of cool light shone in through the small window on the opposite wall. It took him a moment to make out Gellert’s form in that cell, but there he was: His frame was thin and shaking, curled up under a ragged blanket that didn’t cover him completely, his back turned towards Albus. He slowly let out the air he’d been holding, his hands closing around the cold bars, while he couldn’t pry his eyes away from Gellert.

Something ached deep inside him, blocking his throat and view, because Gellert was there. And he was so obviously in a bad state. And it was Albus, who had put him there. He longed to touch Gellert, to warm him, feed him, get him out of this darkness, but he knew he couldn’t. He leaned his forehead against the bars as well, trying to calm his nerves, control his breathing, maybe even work up the courage to speak.

“Like what you see?” Gellert’s voice was hoarse and weak, but it cut through his whole being. He looked up, but Gellert hadn’t moved. He swallowed. “No,” he said and it sounded hollow in his ears. There was so much he wanted to say.

_How are you? - Stupid question!_

_You look horrible. - You too._

_Merry Christmas. - Fuck off!_

“I’ve brought food.” At that Gellert laughed, although it sounded more like coughing. He turned around and slowly stood up. He pulled the thin blanket around his shoulders and shuffled towards the bars. The sight of his bare feet on the cold ground almost made Albus flinch.

“Taking pity on me now?” When he looked into Gellert’s face he had to swallow again. His skin was pale and taunt over his cheekbones, wrinkled around his eyes and bruised on his chin. His hair was now threaded with grey and his hands shaking even as they held the blanket. The only thing that still remained the same were his eyes: mismatched, attentive, beautiful.

“More of a Christmas present.”

“Oh, it’s Christmas?” He looked over his shoulder as if to see whether it looked like Christmas outside. “I lost track of time. Which year is it?”

“1955.” He knelt down and began unpacking his bag. Gellert sat down on the other side of the bars, leaning his back against the wall, while watching Albus.

At first, he handed him a winter cloak and a thick new blanket. Gellert took it without comment and draped it over his body. Then he took out cauldron pie, a serving of lamb and mashed potatoes and a box of biscuits. At last he pushed a pile of books (one at a time) through the bars.

The he sat down on the ground as well, right next to Gellert, but separated by cold iron.

“So, Christmas?” Gellert asked before taking a piece of the cake. “Did nobody else want you?”

A hot sting surged through him and he looked down at his hands. It had been a mistake. He shouldn’t have come. There was too much bitterness between them. Too much hurt and pain. But he stayed nonetheless. Maybe this was what he’d come for, really.

“What makes you think I want you here?”

“Well...” He needed a moment to get his voice back in order. “At least you can’t run away.”

Gellert only shrugged at that and continued with the cake. Silence spread between them. Kind of heavy, kind of uncertain, until Albus turned his head to look at Gellert again.

“How are you?” He whispered.

“What do you think?” Gellert snarled, putting the rest of the food aside. “You locked me away in my own prison, my body is rotting and my mind might be as well with all this boredom. But how would you know? You’re the hero, aren’t you? Why would you care about the villain?”

“You were never a villain to me.”

Gellert snorted, but it didn’t sound amused.

He leaned his forehead against the bars again, closed his hand around one of them and continued: “And if you were, I’m as much a villain as you are.”

Gellert remained silent for a long time. Albus was almost convinced, he’d decided not to talk to him at all, anymore. The silence stretched out and weighed him down and his chest felt heavier with each passing second, until Gellert finally spoke. “No, you are not.”

“I waited too long. I let you continue, because I was too afraid to face you... I left you, in the first place. I told you to go,” he said quietly.

“I left _you_. After her death, I ran away. I knew you’d come around. I knew you’d come back, after you’d calmed down, but I ran anyway.”

“Maybe if I had tried to calm you earlier. If I hadn’t been so caught up in our plans, if I had seen clearer, I could have...” His voice broke at that and Gellert rolled his eyes.

“Stop that self-loathing, Albus. I am aware we both have a habit of thinking that the world revolves around our actions, but not all bad in the world is your fault. And you cannot save everyone.”

“But I should’ve saved you!” He really wished his vision wasn’t so blurry, because for the first time Gellert properly looked at him.

“I was already beyond saving, when we met.”

“If I had loved you better, if I hadn’t been so -“

“You are the only one, who ever loved me! If I was ever merciful, if I ever second guessed, if I ever lowered my wand it was because of you. You cannot save people and you know that.”

Albus shook his head and closed his eyes, desperately trying to stop the tears streaming down his cheeks. “I’m so sorry...” he murmured, his voice barely audible. Moments passed in heavy silence, then he felt Gellert’s hand on his on one of the bars. “Stop this now. You’re sentimental because it’s Christmas.”

“I miss you. I love you. I -“ Now his frame was shaking as much as his voice.

“Albus!” Gellert clasped both his hands now. “Stop now! If you want me to yell at you and tell you I hate you, you’re about five years late. You will have to ask your brother for that.”

It took him some time to calm his breathing and stop crying and when he finally did, he felt so pathetic, he didn’t dare look up at Gellert. He swallowed to get rid of the lump in his throat. “Apologies. I shouldn’t have come here today.”

“I’m glad you did. _Du fehlst mir auch_.” At that he looked up, speechless for a second, and found that Gellert had leaned his forehead against the bars now. There were a million things he wanted to say, still. So much he wanted to ask, so much he needed to know, so much he’d always wanted to confess, but he said none of those things. Instead he mustered a crooked smile, leaned forward again and asked: “Who is sentimental, now?”


	2. December 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is part 1/2. Continuing on December 3rd. (Or in this case, tonight.)

Albus had been working at Hogwarts for more than 20 years, now and never before had he spent dinner on Christmas Eve with so many students. There had been a heated debate in the teachers’ room whether or not they should just leave the house tables, but in the end, it had been decided that 2 of the grand tables would do for the students and the teachers and that a bit of mingling would be a welcome distraction.

Most of the younger students looked quite happy to be staying in the castle with their friends and a lot of free time to explore the grounds. The older ones, on the other hand, looked rather worried, spending a lot of time in the library or the owlery or in front of the radio. Albus had to admit, he felt quite uneasy himself, although he tried to hide it from his students and the buzzing of the radio was a steady background noise in his office these days.

The war was raging around the world and the wizarding world couldn’t avoid getting involved. There was no spell that could protect villages from bombs, no shield against hundreds and thousands of bullets, no antidote that could reverse the effects of gas. The seaway was blocked, the ministries had forbidden further air travels and nobody had the time or the guts to set up illegal portkeys anymore. Even the owls often returned without having delivered their letters or packages.

He had begged Gellert to move to England with him, when it had become clear that the NSDAP wasn’t interested in politics of peace and that Hitler condemned everything that didn’t fit in his scheme of how people should look and behave. And Gellert had never been good at keeping his head low, especially not with his party fighting to loosen up the statue of secrecy. So Gellert had refused. He’d stayed in his flat in Germany and in the magical parliament and promised to be careful, while visiting Hogwarts on the weekends. (Albus refused to visit him in Germany since the first rumours about the men with the pink triangles had occured.)

In November the English ministry had forbidden floo connections to Germany, though, and since other ways of travel were problematic as well, he hadn’t seen Gellert in over a month. He grew more worried with every passing day that he didn’t hear from Gellert (he’d sent an owl 3 days ago, but she hadn’t returned, yet) and every newsflash on the radio. He’d hoped they would be able to find a way to spend Christmas together, but now he had to try and fight off the thought that he would be more than happy, if he ever saw Gellert again.

It was irrational, of course, Gellert was powerful and clever, he’d surely not just be killed at war, but the nagging feeling stayed. Even Gellert was not immune to a gunshot. That was why he really had to remind himself to keep it together, when his owl finally returned bearing a message from the ministry telling him they couldn’t transfer his letter. At the same time the charmed radio in the corner of the great hall turned up the sound automatically, the Christmas song that had been playing stopped and the chatter at the table died down, before a solemn voice announced: “Joint muggle forces are dropping bombs over the Germany. German Wizards and Witches are advised to seek shelter in muggle pillboxes or at their local Office for Magical War Emergencies.”

It felt as if icy water had replaced the blood in his veins, as if his heart had missed a beat. He dropped his fork, while the Christmas song resumed playing and the children started talking about presents and Peeves and Hogwarts’ decorations again.

Bombs were falling in Germany. That was not a first, but it was the first time that he couldn’t reach Gellert. The first time that he couldn’t just poke his head in the fireplace and make sure he was alright - maybe even convince him to come over for a while.

“Are you alright, Albus? You look pale.” Horace put a hand on his shoulder and studied him carefully.

Somehow, he was lacking the air to breath and talk, so when he tried his voice sounded hoarse. He swallowed and tried again, plastering a smile on his face. “I’m alright. I just remembered I forgot to write to my sister. Excuse me.”

He didn’t know why he lied to Horace. Maybe because he felt the immense fear overcoming him irrational. Bombs were falling everywhere, there were students, who hadn’t heard from their parents or siblings in a long time and Gellert probably had better chances of surviving than the regular citizen.

Nonetheless he rushed to his office, grabbed a piece of parchment and hastily scribbled something down. Then he opened Fawkes’ cage and the phoenix settled on his shoulder, rubbing his head against his cheek. He held up the parchment and Fawkes took it in his beak. “Find him.” He stroked Fawkes’ head and the phoenix gave off a cry that sounded like a promise, before he disappeared.


	3. December 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I am still behind schedule, I'll try to catch up, promise!

He’d returned to Christmas dinner, still on the edge, but managed to hide it well enough from his students. He gratefully took a goblet of fairy-wine from Horace and tried to ignore the nagging voice in the back of his mind, playing through every horrible scenario he could possibly imagine.

Afterwards, he lay awake until late that night, until he had graded all his 5th years’ papers, until he’d finished reading _Homage to Catalonia_ and had even written answers to all the ministry letters that came flying in these days. (Apparently Spencer-Moon and Travers considered him their personal war advisor, no matter how often he told them that he was not.)

He tried going to bed, tried to sleep, but couldn’t calm his erratic heartbeat enough to actually find some peace. It was almost dawn already, when he finally gave up. He slipped into his overcoat and left his private rooms for the kitchen. A cup of tea or hot chocolate would hopefully calm his nerves and maybe, Fawkes would have returned by then.

He crossed the entrance hall, took the stairs down to the basement and tickled the pear that finally turned into a doorknob. Upon entering the kitchen two dozen of big, round pairs of eyes stared at him expectantly.

“Good morning,” he greeted, and the house-elves broke into a lively chatter of which he only understood the occasional “Good Morning Professor Dumbledore, Sir” and “We are preparing breakfast, Sir, do you want?”.

“Actually, I was just looking for a cup of hot chocolate.” He hadn’t even finished his sentence, when one of the house-elves, one with particularly intense yellow eyes, jumped onto a table yelling: “Hobi will get it! Hobi will get it, Professor Dumbledore!” The other elves grumbled and returned to work, but Albus smiled politely. “Thank you, Hobi.”

Just a minute later Hobi appeared again with a steaming mug of hot chocolate and Albus closed his hands around it as if he had to hold on to something.

“You are awake early, Sir,” Hobi said.

“The excitement of Christmas morning, I would say.” He gave Hobi a smile, wondering why on earth he was lying to a house-elf. He took a sip from his mug and closed his eyes for a second, focusing on the sweet liquid running down his throat. Slowly he breathed in and out and felt his heartbeat calm down and his eyelids growing heavy, when - suddenly – he felt a weight settling on his shoulder.

He opened his eyes, expecting only Fawkes on his shoulder, but found himself looking straight into a pair of mismatched eyes.

Relief washed over him crushing like a wave. His next breath felt like it made up for a thousand he’d held in and he put down his mug to pull Gellert into a tight embrace. “Merlin, you are here,” he mumbled, burying his face on Gellert’s neck.

“Your damn bird didn’t leave me a choice,” Gellert replied. Albus chuckled and pulled back a little to look at Gellert properly, while Fawkes hopped from his shoulder onto the table.

“I’m glad he didn’t. I was worried about you.” Gently, he wiped a bit of grime from Gellert’s cheek and brushed dirt off of his robe. “You weren’t far from a bomb, were you?”

“Far enough.”

Albus shook his head. “Now, you are just being stubborn.”

“No, right now, any place in the world is as safe as the other. They could be dropping bombs over here tomorrow.” 

“Since the war began, there hasn’t been a single bomb within 100 miles of this school, why won’t you stay here with me?”

Gellert sighed and put his hands on Albus’ shoulders. “Because I will not bow down to the muggles.”

“You will, if you’re dead!”

“But I won’t get killed!" 

“You look like you haven’t been too far away from it.”

“Well, thank you. You don’t look so great either." 

Albus took a deep, calming breath and smiled at Gellert. He was alive and well and safe for the moment, that was the most important thing. Everything else could wait for another time. “I couldn’t sleep,” he admitted.

Gellert leaned his forehead against Albus’ and closed his eyes. “That makes two of us.”

“If you stay for Christmas, we can go to bed now.” Gellert’s lips stretched into a crooked smile and he pulled back a little. “Actually, I don’t have a present for you.”

“I don’t need a present. I am just glad you are here.”

“So, that makes me your present?”

Albus shook his head and kissed him quickly. “No, you are a present from Fawkes.”

Gellert waved his hand. “Either way: Merry Christmas, Albus.”


	4. December 4

“I am freezing,” Albus complained.

“We’re almost there.” Gellert grabbed his arm and pulled him into a small street. “Besides, this was your idea.”

“Well, you never told me German winters are _this_ cold.”

“It’s not much colder than on your isle and you wanted to see where I grew up.”

They were stepping through the streets of Stuttgart, which were covered in 10 inches of snow.

“I thought it would be nice, if we’re here anyway.”

Gellert turned around, walking backwards against the icy wind and grinned at him with reddened cheeks. “And? Is this nice?”

“It’s cold,” he replied.

Gellert rolled his eyes, took his hand and lead him to the door of a narrow, fancy looking building. It was made out of white stone with soft patterns covering the facade. It looked warm and welcoming and it almost felt like home.

Gellert held the door open and he entered a hallway, plastered with bright red carpet, grand chandeliers and a marble reception desk on the left. Gellert talked to the young woman behind the desk in German, but in such a way that he couldn’t understand a word.

“Is that how you speak around here?” Albus asked, when he collapsed onto the wide bed in the middle of their room.

“Yes, that’s the dialect around here. Did you understand anything?” Gellert kicked off his shoes and lay down next to him.

“Not a word.”

“Don’t worry, it doesn’t even sound nice and everyone will understand _Hochdeutsch._ ”

“Well, we’re not very interested in _talking_ to Gregorovitch anyway, are we?”

Gellert laced their fingers together and kissed his knuckles. “No.” He smiled at him. “Just one more night. We will possess a hallow. We will possess the most powerful wand in the world.”

Albus turned towards him, slid a hand under his waistcoat and kissed him. “Thrilling, isn’t it?”

Gellert stroked his neck and pulled him in for another kiss. “Indeed,” he whispered against Albus’ lips. “Maybe we should leave something in return. It’s Christmas after all.”

“We leave his life, isn’t that enough?”

“If we can.”

Albus pushed himself up on his elbows to look into Gellert’s face, frowning. “You promised, Gellert,” he warned. “No more violence than strictly needed.”

“I know, I know. I’m just saying that I will not let that old fool prevent us from acquiring one of the hallows. I won’t kill him, if it doesn’t have to be.”

“Good.” Albus leaned in again, to kiss Gellert, when he was flipped around with Gellert straddling him. Gellert grinned down at him. “But I’ve got a present for _you._ ”

“I’ve got something for you, as well, but It’s not time for presents, yet.”

“Of course, it is!” Gellert stood up and opened his bag. “It’s Christmas Eve.”

“Exactly and you open presents on Christmas _day_ , which makes sense.”

Gellert shook his head, produced a small poorly wrapped package from his bag and sat down next to him again. “That’s nonsense, but we’re in Germany right now, anyway, so we do it the German way.”

Albus rolled his eyes, but took the package from Gellert. He turned it in his hands, examining it. “Will it explode?”

“Yeah, it’ll destroy the whole room,” Gellert replied dryly.

Albus simply smiled at that and began unwrapping the gift. It was a small velvet box and just a for a second his mind went far into the future and his gaze from the fingers of his own hand to Gellert’s. When he opened the box, though, there were no rings in it, but a delicate silver pocket watch. Fine lines were running around it in patterns that resembled those on the vial hanging around Gellert’s neck. On top of it the letters “GD” were interlacing and when he flipped it open there were planets rotating instead of numbers and twelve hands, each formed like the sign of the deathly hallows.

“I know your father’s watch broke, so I thought you could use it,” said Gellert.

“It’s beautiful.” He ran his thumb over the engraving and put the other hand on Gellert’s chest, where the vial rested. “Thank you.”


	5. December 5

The Muggle war had ended in November already, but Christmas was still overshadowed by the aftermath of it. 

There had been legislations in place in Britain, forbidding wizards to interfere with affairs of the Muggles, but rarely anyone - mostly pureblood supremacists - had obeyed these rules.

Now, a month after the end of the war, that hadn’t changed much. Wizards brought supplies of food and water to the homeless, helped building up destroyed villages and took care of the injured. They helped the muggles in any way they could without exposing wizardkind.

In Germany, though, there had been no such legislations and the magical parliament had to deal with more breaches of the Statue of Secrecy than any other country. There was turmoil, people acting up against the Allies, people without a home or food or water, people, who had lost everything. And there were wizards, who tried to profit from the situation: A political movement concerned with abolishing the Statue of Secrecy gained more attention, more followers than ever before and Albus knew that Gellert was drawn towards it.

It was something he was worried about far more than about the rest of the world order. They didn’t get to see each other as often as he’d have liked to, though. He needed to stay at Hogwarts most of the time, while Gellert had to work extra hours at the parliament. So, when Christmas holidays started and most of the children left the castle to spend time at home, Albus himself decided to do so as well. He flooed over to their shared cottage at the south coast of England (it actually stood empty a lot) to put up Christmas decorations and a tree and waited for Gellert to come home.

When he finally did, though, he was not alone. He carried a small boy, with unruly hair and a dirty face and a blanket wrapped around him.

“Did I miss anything?” Albus asked, when Gellert shut the door and sat the child down on the dining table.

“He’ll be staying with us for a while,” Gellert said, stripping off his cloak and shoes.

Albus approached the boy and carefully unwrapped him from the blanket. His clothes were just as dirty as his face and torn in more than one place. He surely wasn’t older than four.

“What’s your name?” Albus asked softly.

The boy looked up, but didn’t say anything.

“Johann,” Gellert said. “We found him in Elsass with a bunch of other children. Their parents are dead, but all the orphanages are overloaded, so the Department for Magical Social Issues decided to temporarily distribute the rest of them on all the available employees of the parliament. Just - don’t ask.”

“Poor boy,” Albus said, stroking Johann’s hair.

“I’m glad you’re home. Thought _I’d_ have to deal with this alone,” Gellert replied.

Albus rolled his eyes, outstretched his hand and let a wet cloth fly into his hand to clean Johann’s face. “For how long will he be staying with us?”

“Good question! Ask Müller, maybe he’ll give _you_ an answer.” Gellert put his hands on his hips and frowned at the boy. “I tried to refuse to take him in.”

“Why?” Albus asked.

“Because we have no time for a child? And we don’t know anything about children.”

“Oh yes, you’re right, I’ve got no idea how to handle children.” Albus shot him a quick glance.

“I mean _young_ children. And having them around all the time.” Albus raised an eyebrow and Gellert sighed. “You know what I mean.”

“I do. But I have got some time over the holidays, I daresay we’ll be able to deal with it.” He wiped the last traces of dirt from the boy’s forehead and studied him carefully. He didn’t seem hurt or maybe his injuries had been healed already, but he did seem to fight off sleep, his eyelids apparently heavy and closing from time to time only for him to suddenly reopen them wide, still afraid, still leery. He couldn’t help the wave of sympathy and pity that washed over him, upon seeing the trauma of such a young soul. And it was hard not to get angry at the muggles for causing something like this in so many children, so many grown-ups, but then again, he reminded himself, it was not the nature of muggles to fight wars – it was human nature. “ _Möchtest du einen Kakao haben_?”

The boy looked up and for the first time, he looked him in the eyes, for the first time he seemed to really see him. It was as if life returned into his body upon hearing his mother tongue.

Gellert let out a laugh. “First thing you do is feed him sweets, really, Albus?”

“You know me, I do enjoy a cup of hot chocolate after a long day.” He turned his head to smile at Gellert, when he felt a tugging on his sleeve. He turned his gaze towards Johann, only to see him nodding very slowly.

“See?” He smirked at Gellert, who rolled his eyes and waved it off, but made his way towards the kitchen anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation of the German sentence: "Would you like to have hotch chocolate?"
> 
> Ah, I'm glad to have gotten this out, maybe I'll continue this one. And I seem to have got a thing for wars and Christmas, what does that say about me?


	6. December 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is a bit different and there will - again - be a part 2 (When Gellert will come into this, too ;) ).

“Father, can you read to me, please?” He entered the small room, stuffed to the brim with books, that served as his father’s study.

Father turned around on his chair and smiled at him. “It’s late, Albus,” he said.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“And your mother? Hasn’t she seen you?”

“She has fallen asleep with Ariana.” His little sister had been sick for days now and it seemed to Albus that she cried even more than she had ever done as a baby.

Father nodded, the smile still on his face. “What would you like me to read?”

Albus strode over to the shelves on the left side of the room and looked up. He stretched out his arms and concentrated very hard on the leather-bound book that was sitting high up on the top shelf. Nothing happened for a moment and father was getting up already, a scolding on his lips that he did not ask, but simply gestured for what he wanted like a toddler, when the book moved. It flew off of the shelf and into Albus’ arms with such force, that he stumbled backwards and landed on his back.

“Are you alright, Albus?”

Father pulled him up and looked him over with concern. Albus nodded.

“You should not do that,” he scolded softly.

“Why not?”

“Because you cannot control it just yet. You could have hurt yourself. Or you could hurt others.”

“But I can control it! I did it on purpose!” Albus protested.

“And I am very proud of you, but it did not work perfectly, did it? And you are not supposed to do magic yet. You are not in school and you are not of age.“

Albus grimaced, then looked at his feet. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright, come here, now.” Father sat down in his armchair and Albus followed him. Father pulled him on his lap and took the book from his hands. He settled against his father’s chest and folded his hands.

“The Iliad, again?”

Albus nodded. He could read, he read a lot of things alone, but some of his father’s books - wizard and muggle alike - were very hard to read. It took him a long time to make out the words, some he didn’t know, some sentences didn’t make sense, some were printed in a font he didn’t know. But he liked the stories nonetheless and he liked it even more, when his father read them to him, when his voice changed when there was action, when someone was talking, he liked, when father explained to him what was happening and why and why it was written that way.

He had once asked why father had so many muggle books and father had replied that muggles were as much part of their world as wizards were and that it would not do to only know about one of the two. “And,” he had added, “your mother’s parents are not magical, don’t forget that, Albus. They are part of our family, they are part of you. We are not so different from the Muggles, even if some people would like to think we are.”

“Well, which song would you like me to read today?” father asked now. 

The first time he had chosen the heavy book for it’s nice cover, he’d asked, why the chapters were called songs and not chapters and father had explained that at the time authors were bards and their books were spoken on market places in Greek or Latin and they were written in verses with a rhythm.

“The song of Patroclus.”

Father raised his eyebrows and looked at him. “Which one is the song of Patroclus?" 

“18.”

“But Patroclus is already dead." 

“Yes, but he is all Achilles thinks about and everything he does, he does because of him. Patroclus changed the story.”

Father flipped through the pages, until he found the beginning of the song. “You seem to like Patroclus.”

“I do. I wish I had a friend like Patroclus.”

Father held him tight and kissed the top of his head. “You will make good friends, someday, Albus. You will see.”

Then he began to read.

*

When Ariana was attacked it rippled through his family. Father went to search for the Muggle boys, who had done it to her and returned in the morning, soaked by rain and tears, but without any trace of the attackers.

Ariana was hurt - physically - which was a horrible sight that Albus could not quite comprehend, but what happened to her after her wounds had healed, was even worse. She resented magic, didn’t want to hear about it, didn’t want to be around it and did never want to ever use it in her life.

Mother cried a lot. She almost seemed to be in trance the first days after the incident. Father - usually calm and warm-hearted - was impulsive, at times even harsh. 

Albus could not understand it, much less deal with it - as opposed to Aberforth. His little brother turned out to be the only one able to handle the situation. He cared for Ariana, he slept at her bedside for the time that her wounds were healing and he was able to calm her, when she got hysterical. He’d always admired the bond his siblings shared, but now it made him feel useless. He couldn’t help Ariana, he didn’t know how. He couldn’t help mother or father. He was told he was exceptionally clever, but this he simply could not understand.

Mother had made it _very_ clear that they must not - ever - talk about Ariana’s condition. They were not allowed to tell their friends or colleagues, to tell the nice old couple Archer from the marketplace, they should even avoid the topic with their grandparents. His parents had never been big on punishment, even though Aberforth had earned himself quite a bit of trouble, but Albus really suspected that a beating would not be too far a stretch to expect, should one of them ever say anything.

It was an unnerving feeling. Not that he wanted to tell anyone about it, but the secrecy and the tension in his home unsettled him. And he was angry, so very angry at these boys, he had never felt anything quite like it and he didn’t know how to handle it. Aberforth rebelled at first, he had friends, he was popular and he was the closest to Ariana. He was also very young, still and did not understand why they couldn’t just tell the Aurors and couldn’t bring Ariana to St. Mungo’s Hospital.

Mother and Father sat them down one evening and explained that Ariana had developed an Obscurus and that it made her sick and that the ministry used to lock away Obscurials, because they feared them. They made it sound like she was dangerous, but Albus dared not ask about it.

Instead he started looking through Father’s books, searching for information on Obscurials, but if he possessed such books, he hid them well. 

He felt strained, as if he could not talk at home, anymore. He spent most days in his room (He shared it with Aberforth, but his brother was usually with Ariana.) reading up on magic, sometimes even writing down his thoughts on what he read. He took a special liking to Transfiguration and the Dark Arts, he read up on Hogwarts, on the history of magic, on wizarding communities in other countries. He even looked into runes and alchemy, but most books were still a little bit complicated to understand.

He got used to it, after a few months, but he couldn’t help the heavy, strained feeling in his chest that crept up on him from time to time. That mostly happened, when he was still sitting in his bed reading, late at night, while Aberforth was fast asleep in his own. He got that feeling when he tried to talk to the other children in the village about the things he had researched, but they just looked at him in confusion or didn’t even let him finish. He felt it, when he asked father, whether they could talk about a certain book, but father answered he was too tired or too busy or Ariana needed him.

They moved to Godrics Hollow shortly before he was about to start school. The inquiries about Ariana and why nobody saw her anymore and if anything had happed simply became too much in Mould-on-the-Would and nobody really seemed to believe she was simply sick and fragile anymore. So, his parents decided to move away from it, move to a village, where nobody knew them, nobody knew they had a daughter in the first place and where nobody would ask too much about their family.

Hogwarts, then, was glorious. It was the most wonderful experience of his life. Everything was magical. The castle, the portraits on the wall, the staircases. The professors were talented, the library was huge and his fellow students admired him. He was thriving. He was top of every class, the knowledge he had spent the past year reading up on, came in useful now. It turned out he even knew much more than he needed to know and it seemed like every spell, every charm just came naturally to him. As soon as he held his wand, he just felt like he knew what he had to do, how to hold it, how to wield it, how to speak the charm. It was like he was destined to do magic and he loved every second of it. This was, what he was made for. Magic, magic, magic.

*

He was home for the holidays and his absence during the past few months had given his family some time to settle in, apparently. Ariana and Aberforth asked him all about Hogwarts, while Mother cooked his favourite dinner and Father called him into his study in the evening.

“I’ve got some new books you might enjoy.” He handed Albus three books bound in coloured leather, which sites were still stiff and smelled new. All of them were muggle books, which Albus hadn’t touched in quite a while.

“Thank you, father.”

“You’re welcome. Let me know what you think, when you finish them.” Father smiled at him and he nodded. “I will.”

He had planned to read _The strange case of_ _Dr. Jeckyl and Mr Hyde_ first, but when his mother woke him the next day, she took _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ off of his nightstand and strode out of his room, a frown on her face. He jumped out of bed, grabbed his dressing gown and followed her downstairs.

“Percival?” She called out, while he was still stumbling down the stairs. He almost bumped into her, when she came to a halt in the kitchen, where father was preparing breakfast.

“Yes?” Father looked at her kindly.

“You shouldn’t let him read this!” She waved the book in the air.

“Why not?” He and father asked in unison. Mother’s frown deepened.

“It is not appropriate.”

“Why not?” Albus asked, while Father put a bowl with scrambled eggs on the table and gently took the book from her. “You don’t really believe that, Kendra,” he said.

“Have you read it?” Mother demanded. 

“I have,” answered Father. “I think it is quite an outstanding piece of literature.”

“I don’t want him to read it.” 

“Why not?” Albus interjected. “Why is it not appropriate?” He hated to be ignored. He was not a little boy anymore, he’d read a lot of things that his professors had claimed to be too complicated for him and he’d always proved them wrong.

“He has read Oscar Wilde before, you know.”

“Not this one.”

“What do you think will happen?” Father handed the book back to Albus, but he still wanted to know, why mother didn’t want him to read it.

“I just think he doesn’t need to read something like that.”

Now Father frowned. “Albus, go get dressed. And wake your siblings.”

“But why -“ Father lifted his hand and he knew he was dismissed definitively, so he obeyed.

After breakfast he rushed to his room, tossed _Jeckyll and Hyde_ aside and started reading _The picture of Dorian Gray_ to see why his mother deemed it inappropriate.

He found, he didn’t know. He thought it was beautiful. Of all the books he had ever read, he thought, this one was the best by far. It seemed like the words hit something inside him, like they played a string that had been completely untouched before. It made him feel _something_. Something he’d never felt before, something deep and raw and pure and he couldn’t name it, but couldn’t get enough of it either. He finished it in one day and immediately started reading again. He loved the way Wilde strung the words together, loved how he described people, how he described Dorian. He could see it, he could imagine Dorian Gray as if someone had handed him a photograph of the man. He imagined him like one of the young gods of the Illiad or Achilles, the half-god. He didn’t know why his mother would condemn such a wonderful, accurate, artistic piece of writing. It was exceptional, in Albus’ opinion, how Wilde was able to describe a man so realistically and yet so metaphorically. He simply could not stop reading. 

He even brought it downstairs to read in front of the fireplace after Christmas dinner with his grandparents. Aberforth and Ariana were playing with gobstones in the corner - very much against Mother’s wishes, but Ariana seemed so happy and calm that she did not stop them.

“What are you reading, Albus?” His grandfather asked. It didn’t happen often that his grandparents visited them. They lived in the better part of London and always felt a bit out of place in their magical household and the village full of wizards and witches.

“The Picture of Dorian Gray,” he muttered, distracted by the book in his lap.

He noticed that grandmother coughed conspicuously and when he looked up he could see his grandparents staring at his mother. “You let him read _that_?”

“Kendra, don’t you know -,” his grandfather started, but mother interrupted.

“Of course, I know,” she said sternly.

“Know what?” Albus asked.

“That man is a bloody sodomite,” spat his grandfather and folded his arms in front of his chest. 

“Father!” Mother exclaimed, a hand on her chest and Aberforth and Ariana looked up.

“What is a sodomite?” Ariana asked, but Father shook his head. “Switch topics?”

*

Albus knew what a sodomite was, but he could not imagine Oscar Wilde being one of them.

He’d noticed that no other novel talked about men and women the way that _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ did. But since it resonated so well with him, he’d simply thought Wilde was a better writer than the others.

It was an unsettling thought. He thought that men were beautiful, very much so. He found them even more beautiful than women, but he’d never thought about that before. He’d never thought that something might be wrong about _him_.

But there wasn’t, was there? It was just a coincidence. He simply liked Wilde’s style of writing, he was simply fascinated by his use of words. He found girls pretty. He liked their hair and he liked their friendly faces. He liked girls. He was not like _that_.


	7. December 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aaand this is part 2 (I am super behind on this, but for now my goal is to finish this whole thing till the end of the year, bear with me.)

He was like that. Four years later he knew it. He knew it from the way his eyes instantly strayed to other boys, how he couldn’t help thinking they were so much more beautiful than girls. He knew it from the feeling in his gut, when he looked at Samuel Carter, a Gryffindor chaser with a particularly trained body and the most handsome face. He knew it from the way his dreams were laced with appearances of faceless boys and the thought of kissing one of them sent an electric surge through his body, while the thought of kissing a girl did absolutely nothing to him, no matter how nice or pretty they were. He did not wish to kiss them, be with them, even less touch them, while with boys, he could think of a thing or two he’d want to do with them.

There was no one he fancied in particular. As good-looking as they were, most of his fellow students did not intrigue him, neither in character nor in intellect. It did feel lonely from time to time, but he did have friends after all. Elphias was great, he was quite smart and funny and he was the most loyal friend he could’ve wished for. Kent Becker had somehow stumbled into their friendship. They’d been made partners during their third potions lesson and Kent, bold and loud, had blown up their cauldron, afterwards, Albus had guided him threw the brewing and since they shared a dormitory, it was hard not to become friends. Cassandra was a clever girl, she lived in Mould-on-the-Would and had been made a Ravenclaw. She was brilliant at transfiguration - something that had sparked his interest and she never asked about his sister, which he was incredibly grateful for.

Despite all of them, there were times, when he found himself desiring an equal. Someone he could share all his thoughts and feelings - even the darkest, most desperate - with, someone, who truly completely understood him. Someone, who was like him. But at this point, he almost doubted there even was someone like that in the world.

It was good, he told himself. He shouldn’t give in to these tendencies. Homosexuality was tolerated in the Wizarding Community, still far from accepted and his grandparents would probably drop dead on the spot if they ever knew. He himself was still getting used to the thought. He did not think of himself as wrong, anymore. He had read a lot about love and sexuality and history and he couldn’t bring himself to understand why any kind of love should be wrong. He did not believe in god, much less in the bible like mother and neither did he believe that it was a sickness. 

It had taken him some time, though. He’d spent a lot of nights crying, had thrown books around his room in anger and despair (mostly Oscar Wilde and Alfred Douglas’). He’d spent Sundays praying in church, had tried to force himself to think about girls. None of that had done him any good. One night he’d thought he couldn’t bare it anymore on his own. He’d appeared in father’s study and spent half the night crying uncontrollably in his father’s arms, but in the end hadn’t managed to tell his father the truth. It had taken time. A lot of it, after realising that condemning himself for this didn’t do him any good. Even now, he wasn’t sure he was ready to deal with infatuation, so he stayed well away from that. He rather spent his days in the library or in an empty classroom, experimenting with magic.

*

He knew Bathilda Bagshot first. She had gotten in contact after reading one of his articles in _Transfiguration Today_ and given that she lived near them in Godrics Hollow, she had taken it upon herself to come over with cake and books more often than mother had liked. Nonetheless she was persistent. Albus suspected she was curious about his isolated family, that nobody seemed to know even after years of living there and slowly, mother seemed to get used to it, seemed even happy to have someone to talk to. She let Bathilda in slowly, but steadily and Albus could tell that it was good for her.

After graduation he’d wanted to go on a Grand Tour with Elphias. He wanted to see the world, to learn more than Hogwarts and England offered and he wanted some time to think about what to do for a living. He was still unsure, whether he wanted to do politics or science or even education - but he knew he wanted to be great, he wanted to shine, just like everyone had always predicted.

It was unfortunate that Barbara, Elphias’ girlfriend, announced just 3 days before their planned departure that she was pregnant. He’d never seen Elphias that pale and Albus admired that he managed to stay calm and collected. Of course, he would stay home, he promised Barbara, and of course they would get married as soon as possible. Albus didn’t have it in him to be upset, seeing what a shock it was for his friend. It was the very first time that he was glad he never wanted to touch a girl.

He was still debating whether to ask Kent to come or simply go alone, when Gellert Grindelwald arrived in Godrics Hollow.

“Bathilda is bringing her great-nephew along for tea,” mother told him. “He is your age. He got in a bit of trouble at home, as I understand it, and he doesn’t know anybody here. Maybe you can show him around.”

Albus frowned. “Do I have to? I’m still planning my tour, I don’t want to babysit Bathilda’s nephew.”

“Don’t be rude, Albus. Bathilda says he is quite a brilliant young man and you could use some company.”

“Of course, she says that.”

Mother raised her eyebrows and patted his cheek. “Now, be nice.”

The boy, who followed Bathilda, was incredibly handsome. For a second, Albus was taken aback by it. He was tall and pale and had unruly blonde curls that shone in the summer sun. He was wearing his dark shirt sloppily, his suspenders hanging down on his sides and offered him a bored - and irritatingly beautiful - smile along with his hand. However, the most intriguing thing about him were his eyes. One was of a light stormy grey, while the other was so dark that it was impossible to see his pupil.

“Do you really think it’s possible to transfigure light?” Gellert asked as they sat down at the table that mother had prepared in the garden. His voice was laced with hardly pronounced syllables that didn’t quite fit the English language. “I read your essay in _Transfiguration Today_.”

Albus smirked. “I know it is, because I have done it.”

“Show me,” Gellert demanded. Albus wasn’t sure if he was really that commanding or if it was due to the language barrier.

He was already pulling out his wand, when his mother shot him a warning glance. “No wizardry at tea, Albus.” Her head slightly tilted towards Ariana and Albus suppressed a sight.

“And _you_ shouldn’t always challenge everyone you meet, Gellert,” Bathilda scolded. Gellert turned his head and rolled his eyes and Albus couldn’t help but grin at him. Gellert’s face split into a crooked grin as well, dimples appearing on his cheeks that Albus found - despite himself - quite endearing.

“That’s an interesting bracelet,” Gellert commented, while reaching for a piece of cauldron cake. He spoke so casually that it took Albus a moment to realise that Gellert was talking to him. He glanced down at the leather bracelet decorated with the sign of the Deathly Hallows on his right arm, then he looked at Gellert again.

“Thank you,” he replied hesitantly. Did Gellert know the sign? Or was he just being polite? He’d never met anyone, who believed in the Hallows, but then again, Gellert hadn’t exactly been _polite_ either. 

“Do you know the meaning of that sign?” Gellert asked.

Irritation rose in his chest. What did this boy think? That he was completely ignorant? That he would just run around displaying a sign he knew nothing about? 

“Of course, I do. I reckon you know about it, too?”

Gellert leaned back in his chair and smirked. “I’ve been fascinated by the Hallows for a long time now. Ask my teachers.”

“What’ve your teachers got to do with it?”

“I carved it into a wall at school. They weren’t very amused by that.”

Albus laughed. “You’re joking.”

But Gellert shook his head. “I’m serious.”

Albus took a sip of his tea and wondered why he felt such an intense urge to prove to Gellert that he shared his fascination. “Would you like to see Ignotus Peverells grave?” He asked, sounding as casual as Gellert had. He felt Gellert’s gaze shift towards him, attentive and sharp and with an intrigued twinkle in his eyes. For a moment he revelled in the feeling of having impressed Gellert.


End file.
